My ten albums: Dunja Bahtijarević

Dunja Bahtijarević is having an exciting year with Dunjaluk, where she works with guitarist Luka Čapeta. At the end of last year, they released their first, self-titled album, followed by promotions in Croatia, as well as many concerts in other countries. As part of the MOST Music program, Dunjaluk participated in the Balkan:MOST festival in Veszprem, and they were the first Croatian artists to perform at the fantastic Fira Mediterrània festival in Manresa, Spain. Before the end of the year, will play in Cerkno, Munich, and Odense (at Resonator Festival).

Between all these concerts and work on other music projects - Pjesme (with Marta Kolega), Çhâñt élečtrónïqùe and Mimika Orchestra - Dunja has found time to select ten albums for Izvorišta that have influenced her. Read, play the music Dunja talks about, and enjoy.

(Photo: Marina Uzelac)

Tamara Obrovac Transhistria Ensemble - Transhistria (Cantus 2001.)

I heard this album when I was in high school, and it remains my comfort music. I’ve listened to it so many times, and through such a long period that it feels like home. At the time I first heard it, it was unthinkable that the punk that I was would like it. I surprised myself. I had to say goodbye to a part of me - I guess the part that was restricting my view. But still today there’s at least a bit of rebellion, cheekiness (I can’t find the right English word for bezobrazluk), arrogance in all the music I listen to, including this album.

Lankum - The Livelong Day (Rough Trade 2019.)

While I was in my teenage years, the only traditional music that had a decent reputation among the people in my generation was Irish. It was folk music that rose above the level of folk. I don’t know if it was a universal, or just a Balkan thing. I guess Metallica’s Whiskey in the Jar and the popularity of the Pogues had something to do with it. Also the inexplicable conviction that Ireland and Croatia are somehow connected - mind you, this was well before Croatians started to emigrate to Ireland. I was never really into Irish folk. Years later, my friend Darragh Quinn from Chant Électronique introduced Lankum to me - a drony, dark, melancholic Irish band. This album was everything I needed for months on end. Also, the vibratoless singing style of Radie Peat gives me fantastic practice material!

Dudu Tassa and the Kuwaitis - El Hajar (Nur Publishing 2019.)

This album is a wonder, where every song feels better than the previous one, with already the first one blowing your mind. I got hooked on it as the pandemic struck. Living alone in a highrise, I took long, brisk walks throughout the city. At that time Luka Čapeta and I started to create Dunjaluk, and I was walking to his apartment on the other side of the city to rehearse, an hour there, an hour back. This album doesn’t let you stop, whether you’re dancing or walking. I listened to it from winter to summer. In winter it sounded like summer, and in summer like winter. It’s always refreshing. I don’t think I will ever get bored of it.

Kronos Quartet - Floodplain (Nonesuch 2009.)

I love how Kronos can subject themselves to an idea, how they can play for the purpose of, and embellish without overwhelming, how they can underline the essence of their collaborators. This album is a trip eastwards, but also a trip through ways of expression, from richly, woefully melodic to ritualistic and experimental. Almost a manual of what you can do with tradition - with “...hold me, neighbor, in this storm…” basically an album in itself. Floodplain also introduced me to the wonderful Alim Qasimov and his ensemble. Some other introductions by Kronos will later be equally unforgettable.

San Salvador - La Grande Folie (Pagans 2021.)

I’m always looking for vocal performances that are so energetic, intense, and captivating that they take all of your attention. It’s even impossible to have La Grande Folie playing in the background - it’s upsetting, it stresses you out if for whatever reason you can’t join their trip. It causes the fomo of listening to music. It seems to me that what people usually expect from vocal music is to be sweet, soothing, enchanting, to trick you into thinking that it’s a love song when it’s about murder. But there’s the other side of the medal, when it’s engaging, unsettling, when you hear all of life in a voice, in a song. When it’s as cathartic as distorted guitars. I haven’t heard San Salvador live (yet), but I can imagine a mosh pit.

Mina - The Collection 3.0 (Warner Music Italia 2015.)

That I list this one as an album is a consequence of listening to music on streaming platforms. I don’t know the albums of Mina. I know many of her songs, and lots of compilations, real or just digital, that they are crammed on. This one is even called differently on Deezer and Tidal. It’s among my favorites of hers, and apart from being a set of incredible songs, it’s a great practice book for me. Mina solves a lot of my technical questions! She’s also proven to be great to listen to in a car, driving down the Croatian coast, in the spring, with the windows down, the skies and the sea clear from bura. Just make sure I’m not in the car, showing you what I learned from Mina.

Haustor - Treći svijet (Jugoton 1984.)

Another album I never get tired of, even though I’ve known it since I was 15. The sound is distinctive, warm, and the lyrics read like a poetry book. A really good one! It’s suggestive, bold, mystical, elusive. The narrative world of the album has always reminded me of Corto Maltese. I don’t really subscribe to the hero/ gunman/ romantic loner archetype, but in this case, it results in poignant and beautiful lines: I can feel her behind my back / in front of me a massive ship / immortal children / and the sinking sun. / Then her hand touches my shoulder / the noise of the harbour falls upon us / and it gets quiet / as when a machine stops.

Mercedes Sosa - Mercedes Sosa en Argentina (Philips 1982.)

I was stunned the first time I heard the voice of Mercedes Sosa. So much richness in simplicity. One of the singers that seem to do it effortlessly. The song was Sólo le pido a Dios, and my love was affirmed when I read the translation. This is a live album, where you can feel how important she is to the audience, not only as a singer but as a protest singer, and how fixated they are on the performance. When I listen to it, I feel I’m there, and I wish I was. Among the beautifully played songs there are gems that introduced me to South American song collectors and songwriters that I got to love, such as Violeta Parra and Maria Elena Walsh.

Big Thief - Dragon New Warm Mountain I Believe in You (4AD 2022.)

It’s more about the band than the album, since the work of Big Thief in general, or more precisely Adrianne Lenker, has been something I keep coming back to, and that keeps inspiring me. Knowing of Big Thief for a long time, this was the first album I really dug into. A monster of twenty songs that at first seem impossible to grasp as a whole. It’s incredible how self-sufficient every song is, how disconnected they seem, and how connected they actually are. For me, both lyrically and musically, Big Thief is an endless joy. Their songs are surprising and tight, funny and painful. And they’re raw, which is instantly appealing to me.

Pearl Jam - No Code (Epic 1996.)

I will end on a nostalgic note. I remember vividly a show on Croatian television that I watched when I was 13, with a report from a Pearl Jam concert. After a short introduction, a live performance of Alive was shown, and to me it was love at first listen. Back then a friend and I were recording all music shows on TV - it was the time of VCR, and still no internet, which would arrive in a year or so - in case something we might like would come up. When it did, we would rewind and watch endlessly. Pearl Jam stayed with me for a long time, and when I listen to No Code I kind of understand why. Folky and ritualistic, it pushes genre boundaries. There’s even a spoken word song - it was music for me before I knew who I was!

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